


Screw Tradition

by goddesswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, borderline sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddesswan/pseuds/goddesswan
Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t want to spend a single night away from her pirate, least of all the night before their wedding. Attempts of persuasion through text message ensue.





	Screw Tradition

Emma (10:45): I miss you already.

Emma (10:45): I hate being apart.

Killian looks down at his phone, after the third incessant buzz, and his heart clenches in his chest. He misses her too. Does she not see that? Does she think he wants to spend more than a second away from her?

Killian (10:47): Aye, love. I miss you too but it’s tradition.

He doesn’t know the rules when it comes to this sort of thing, if texting counts or if it doesn’t. They don’t really have anything like texting in the Enchanted Forrest so, for all he knows, this could bring just as bad of luck. But he’s willing to take the risk if only to bring her some sense of peace, unable to stand the thought of her alone in their house, thinking he doesn’t want to be with her so much it bloody hurts.

Emma (10:49): Screw tradition.

Emma (10:48): This is stupid. I know you’re like older than dirt and you’re old fashioned but this is a dumb superstition.

He tries to ignore her. Truly, he does. He manages an entire 12 minutes before breaking.

Killian (11:00): I don’t care if it has no credibility. I am not willing to curse us with any worse of luck than we already have.

Killian (11:01): I can’t risk our happy ending, Swan.

He hopes that will be enough. He’s tired but anxious and he knows if this continues much longer his thumb will begin to protest—unused to being used in such a way and doubly strained by only being afforded the use of one hand.

His will doesn’t hold though and before he can settle the anxiety crawling it’s way up his stomach, into his throat, worsened by her pleas, she responds.

Emma (11:02): Killian, nothing can come between us.

Emma (11:02): If your deaths and all of this realm traveling has taught me anything, it’s that we can weather anything.

Emma (11:03): Hell we weathered that storm in Neverland.

Killian (11:04): You very nearly drowned.

Emma (11:04): But I didn’t!

His stubborn lass. Gods, does he wish to be with her—in bed, beneath the covers, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, running his nose from the dimple in her chin to the back of her hairline, his entire body wrapped around hers. He has to stop his train of thought and focus on something, anything else. It’s already hard enough without getting aroused.

Emma (11:08): We could be naked together right now.

So much for trying to keep himself unaroused.

In and out. In and out, he chants to himself. Deep, slow breaths.

Killian (11:10): Emma.

Emma (11:10): Killian…

Emma (11:11): What if I told you I was naked?

Emma (11:11): Well… not entirely naked. I still have your shirt on.

Emma (11:11): But that’s all and it’s completely unbuttoned.

That insufferable minx. She knows how much he relishes the sight of her in his clothing—his shirt, his robe, his damned socks. It doesn’t very well matter what, if it’s his and she’s wearing it, his mind goes to indecent places. His jeans are starting to feel tighter than normal and he thinks it might be a good idea to get up and walk above deck because it’s suddenly rather warm in his room.

Killian (11:13): For the love of the Jolly Roger, please do not continue.

Emma (11:14): Is it hot on the Jolly? It’s so hot here.

Emma (11:14): I turned on the fan but I’m still hot.

Emma (11:15): I guess I’ll have to take off this shirt.

If there’s one thing he loves more than the sight of her in his clothing, it’s the sight of her in no clothing at all.

His phones chimes again but this time with a photo. He knows that he shouldn’t open it. He’s likely better off getting on his hands and knees, on the floor of his cabin, and banging his head against the wood until he knocks himself out. But the temptation is too great.

It’s hardly anything salacious but it still sends the blood pumping faster through his chest. The photo starts with the tip of her chin and stops just above her breasts. Her hand is resting flat against her chest, the end of her palm at her sternum and her fingers lightly spread out, the tip of her index resting against her collar bone. He can see the light strain in the cords of her neck as she tilts her head back and the dusting of freckles across her shoulder.

His mouth is practically watering. He wants to lick those freckles. He wants to attach his mouth to the ones at the crease of her armpit and bite down.

Killian (11:21): Please, love. We shouldn’t be seeing any of each other. I’m fairly certain picture messages over the talking phone count.

Emma (11:22): I’m pretty sure they don’t.

Her sassy retort is immediately followed by another picture. She’s moved the tall, standing mirror to the foot of their bed and her image is reflected in it. She’s laying on her stomach, her legs together and her toes pressed into the mattress. Her hips are raised slightly off the bed, holding her delectable rump higher in the air.

He chokes on his saliva. His eyes close, unwillingly, against the burning threat of tears but he can still see the image, seared into his eyelids. His blood is boiling and his skin itches.

He needs a glass of ice water. Or to jump into the ocean.

He’s unsure whether he should respond—how he would respond—or if that would only further encourage her. He decides to say something, to give one, final plea.

Killian (11:26): You’ve made your point. You look ravishing and I should be there doing just that, ravishing you. But I’m not and I won’t. I am going to stay here tonight and I will see you tomorrow. And tomorrow we will get married and we will never have to spend another night apart again.

He thinks he’s made his point.

Emma (11:27): Ok. I guess.

Emma (11:28): Just one more picture to help you get through the night.

The last picture is worst of all. It shows her sitting up in bed, all of her creamy, bare skin, looking smoother than ever, visible from the waist up, her hair tousled over her shoulder. The thing that nearly breaks him though, that almost sends him running all the way from the docks back to their home, is her face—the delicate arch of her brows, her bright eyes, her adorable nose, and her soft smile.

A warmth spreads through his chest, different than the feverish heat from before, and his stomach damn near flutters.

Killian (11:30): I love you, Emma Swan.

Emma (11:31): I love you too Killian Jones.


End file.
